


Bottom of the River

by mariusgaaazzh



Category: Naruto
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Ninja Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariusgaaazzh/pseuds/mariusgaaazzh
Summary: Madara's unnecessary dramatic, and feelings are hard - but we all knew that already.





	Bottom of the River

**Author's Note:**

> those two hit me like a freight train

Well, this was cold.

Uchiha Madara was lying in the middle of a river - if it still merited the name after it failed to provide him with any sufficient depth. The mountain snows started to melt recently, and the flooded current escaped its usual banks, running thin through the forest valley. Early spring sounded around him, in the rustle of the freshly sprung leaves and the clear, ringing air of the late evening.

He really did not think this through, but freezing in a river was good enough of a solution as any other. Because he honestly did not know what he was doing, or why this was happening to him. Earlier in the night, Madara raced nearly blindly outside of the village walls, the questions of why, and how, and for what is he doing so pressing that he was not paying attention to where his feet carried him. When he found himself standing on water’s rumbling surface, he decided that it wasn’t worth the chakra, and flopped into the ankle deep stream, slipping on one of the stones upset by the current.

Madara was deeply grateful that there was no one around to see that. His spine distinctly hurt, and the rich, black hair streamed around him, dark strands spreading like ink in the shallow water. But at least his head was cool enough that he could think. Stars shone brightly above, and Madara’s practiced eyed caught out the constellations above Konoha.

 _Konoha, huh_. No matter where his mind went, it always came back to the village these days, came _home_ , even as his proud, defiant self was constantly telling him why this was not possible, why this would not work. And yet it did, his heart was tied to that village and everything it stood for; just as the stories he would tell his brothers were tied to the stars above his head.

This was all, of course, Hashirama’s fault. Or even Tobirama’s, although he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to give the younger Senju that much credit. Sometimes he felt that the brothers conspired against him behind his back, when they stood next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, and delivered a flow of arguments he could not fight against. And then he missed Izuna...

No, the Mist. The blame was definitely on them, for showing up on the first place. The negotiations over the size of the patrol forces each village would have tracking their borders were not going well. It came down to the squabbles over the capabilities of the individual jitsu users, as if the Leaf did not have the two most powerful shinobi living, as if they could not march into the Land of Waves upon their choosing, as if Hashirama and he did not want peace.

It was time for the Kire to be reminded whom they were dealing with. Standing a step behind the Senju, he activated the sharingan, the swimming red twirling menacingly at the dignitaries, precogniscant of their fearful reactions and picking up the flaws in their chakra techniques. There was a pause full with terror in the talks. When he caught Hashirama’s concerned and Tobirama’s displeased gazes, Madara did the best thing he could do - he stormed out.

At times, peace seemed like an exercise in exhaustion. As if the price for not killing each other was to drain life from each other slowly, with papers and proclamations, and alliances written with wind upon waves. And yet he was continuously shook by how much he was willing to give for Hashirama’s dream, and that realization sent him running.

“What _are_ you doing.” The familiar voice was like sweet, and yet somehow unbearable,!like liquorice.

“Nothing.” Madara responded, as he continued to lie in the middle of the river, rocked gently by its current. A part of him cheered at the fact that Hashirama followed him, and the other part loathed it. The two parts played tag-and-pull within him, until they blended into a singular, defiant emotion, and he met Hashirama’s eyes with a stubborn gaze.

Senju looked at him with the same sort of endeared, curious concern that would spread on his face whenever Madara did something - as he would put it - stupid.

“Madara.” Hashirama tried again, with patient urgency. “Please get up, you’ll catch a cold.”

The Uchiha just huffed. This was somewhat a matter of principle, at that point. He would not move just because Senju asked him.

“You realize that you left my brother to handle the Mist, right?”

“Good.” Madara made an effort to hold his neutral expression. “Let him suffer.”

Hashirama laughed, amused, light, and loving. “You did scare the life out of them. It will be easy from now. I have to admit that nearly jeopardizing the talks was a good call.”

And Madara could only stare at the laughing lines that started to settle in the other man’s face and the kind creases in the corners of his eyes, and try remember how breathing was supposed to work.

Hashirama would age beautifully, he thought, with strength never fully leaving his hands even as age would slowly overtake them. He would would sit, the founder of the village, basking in sunlight, surrounded by adoring grandchildren on the steps of his own home.

And Madara realized - sharply and violently - that wanted to be a part of that. He wanted to lace his fingers with Hashirama's in their old age, hair half-grey and old wounds quiet, and will all those restless, noisy Konoha kids - _their_ kids - to silence with overblown stories of shinobi adventures.

He hated himself for that. Hated in a way that only the Uchiha clan were capable of, because they knew how love and loss and anger mixed into one terrible weapon. This knowledge was in their blood, printed into the _tamoe_ of their eyes, and burned into their memories with the chakra of the sharingan. It was in the way mothers dressed their children for battle, and in the songs they sang during long marches. Whether he wanted it or not, he would always see brothers fall on the battlefield before him, one by one, a price of love engraved in his body’s exceptional capacity to kill.

And Madara hated, because - despite all of that - he was still doomed for a love that would make him think that they could build something, rather than just destroy.

“Alright.” After watching his prostrated body for a few long moments, Senju seemed to come to an internal agreement with himself, and acted upon it with a clear, effortless conviction that left Madara so helpless every time.

The God of all Shinobi, Senju Tobirama signed, and settled cross-legged into the stream next to him.

“No, don't.” Madara sat up in the water, hand locked firmly around Hashirama’s wrist.

The Senju blinked at him in surprise.

“You’ll catch a cold.” Madara explained, nearly scandalized, as if he was stating an obvious violation of the natural order.

Hashirama stared at him as if he had missed the last five minutes of their conversation. “Yes, but with you.”

Madara stared at him back.

And there must have been something in his face that Hashirama moved immediately, with speed and strength that Madara was not prepared for.

Senju’s kiss pressed him hard against the bottom of the river, and his fingernails dug into the soft soil underneath him, struggling to find some ground. Until Madara remembered that what held him together was in fact above him, and pulled Hashirama in closer, hands hugging the strong shoulders.

That made Hashirama lose his balance, and he flipped on his side into the river next to Madara, scoffing. He was now equally, irreversibly drenched in icy water.

It was Madara’s turn to laugh, and for that he received a look of mock reproach and a splash of water into his face.

“Get up.” In a moment, Hashirama was standing, hands around Madara’s waist, prepared to haul the stubborn Uchiha out of the stream by force. Madara made a show of not complying, begrudgingly getting on his feet and then leaning against Hashirama to guile him into another kiss. Not that there was a slightest objection.

They sat on the shore, wet, shivering, and laughing against each other, hand in hand. _Just like then by the river_ , Madara thought, _after you tried showing me that ridiculous jitsu of yours_.

And he did not need to say that outloud. Hashirama knew what he was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. Madara could tell by the reckless, boyish joy that filled the other’s eyes. Sometimes their thoughts tangled like this, and they could catch each other’s unspoken phrases in a movement of a shoulder or a dart of an eye. And they did not need to speak of that either, knowledge settling between them deeper than any words.

“Uchiha.” Hashirama said instead, as he always did: not with reproach, anger, and fear, as Madara’s name came off the lips of so many, but with a soft kind of admiration and attention.

“Me.” Madara agreed.

“Mine.”

And this is where he knew that he would not have the words inside him to respond, just kiss the other man with as much care and courage as he could muster.

 

+

Early morning sun was fighting its way through the shoji and directly into Madara’s face.

He made a displeased sound at the intrusion of the golden disk and sneezed, turning under the heap of three blankets and pressing closer to the warm body beside him. There was an an unexpected roughness in the back of his throat, and heaviness to his limbs. And he felt thankful for Hashirama’s thoughtfulness.

They sneaked back into Konoha later the other night, hair and clothes still damp, snickering at the exaggerated secrecy in their own village, making out at every street corner, and then disappearing into the shadows whenever some passerby came close to noticing them.

When they were home, Hashirama insisted on towels, and a warm shower, and a balm for his throat and chest - while Madara just wanted to fuck. Properly, and not on the riverbank, where every single pine needle was up his back. But he could only ward off the inevitable onslaught of herbal teas by kissing the other man senseless.

The herbal teas lingered, however, among the other scents on Hashirama skin. There was also wood, and salt, and fresh linen. Somehow it was so uncomplicated and wonderful, that Madara hid his face from the sun against Hashirama’s shoulder, and tried to go back to sleep.

And sneezed once again. Now he could feel the other man stir awake next to him.

Instead of a good morning, Hashirama sneezed back, and pulled him closer into a tight embrace. Dry, soft lips pressed against Madara’s forehead, and lingered there for a moment.

“We are sick.” The Senju decided.

Madara hummed something which was supposed to indicate accord, but also a question. He was honestly too pleased with the whole situation to open his eyes.

“Terribly sick.” Hashirama continued, pressing a kiss to the corner of Uchiha’s mouth.

“Can’t do anything today?” Madara supplied helpfully, lips curving into a crooked smile as their little conspiracy started to take shape in his mind.

“Absolutely nothing.” Hashirama agreed, pressing lips to his jaw and chin. “Cannot be disturbed.”

Madara lazily caught the other’s lower lip between his own and thought that _yeah, alright, they couldn't_.

Outside, a Konoha morning was picking up it’s pace. Stores were opening their shutters, on-duty shinobi - changing shifts at the gates, first-year genin - hurrying on their D-rank missions, and Senju Tobirama was preparing to complete the talks with the Mist delegation alone. The sun was slowly rising. Their village was living, and their warriors were strong. There was peace, and children will not have to die in their fathers’ wars anymore. A winter’s chill still hung in the clear spring morning, but neither Madara nor Hashirama cared to pay it any heed.

Because together, they were warm.

**Author's Note:**

> a moment of silence for all the times Tobirama had to pick up the paperwork the when those two were too busy being in love.


End file.
